Nothing But Deception

by Allegra Gray

  “Huh. He said you would ask.”

  Bea’s heart beat a rapid tattoo as she peered around the corner once more, in time to see the man pass a small purse to the actress.

  “Now,” the man said. “Have you secured our interests with the major?”

  “He stands ready to assist—though he does not know it.”

  “You are sleeping with him.”

  The actress shrugged. “It is not displeasing. He cuts rather a fine figure in his uniform.”

  Bea’s cheeks burned as she pressed back against the wall. She shouldn’t be here. It was too dangerous. When the pair of spies ended their conversation, what would happen? Miss Kettridge would return to the dressing rooms, but the man? Unless the corridor held an exit she hadn’t seen, he would be forced to retrace his steps—bringing him directly to where she now stood.

  Slowly, she inched away, listening for any cues to suggest their conversation was at an end, and it was time to run. Blood pounded in her ears, and she had to strain even harder to make out their words.

  “Have you access to his office?”

  “I’m sure I could persuade him using the guise of a midday…distraction.”

  “I do not doubt your skills in that area,” he told her. His tone held a faint note of distaste. “But can you remove any items of interest and escape notice?”

  “There is no need,” she said softly, her own tone one of superiority and satisfaction. “Remember what I do for a living? I can memorize anything I see.”

  “That is all very well,” the man replied, “but do you believe he will allow you sufficient time to sit, in a government office, mind you, and read the entire plan, as well as commit it to memory?”

  Bea had heard enough. She moved swiftly, staying on the balls of her feet to avoid making noise. Had the corridor been this long before? Almost there.

  She came to the door, fumbling in the darkness for the knob. Finally she found it and pulled.

  “Lady Pullington?”

  Bea gasped.

  Chapter 9

  Just on the other side of the door stood none other than Monsieur Jean Philippe Durand.

  “Are you all right?”

  Bea nodded, the movement making her dizzy.

  He peered at her closely. “You look pale.”

  Undoubtedly. All the blood had rushed from her head the moment he’d spoken her name. “It is nothing.”

  He glanced at the door she’d just passed through. “Were you lost?”

  “No,” she answered, before realizing he’d handed her the perfect excuse. “I—I mean, yes!”

  His expression was clearly one of disbelief.

  “If you were not lost, Beatrice, then have you a secret lover?”

  “No!” Some of the blood flooded back to her face at the wildly invasive question.

  His lips quirked as though he were amused by the vehemence of her denial.

  Finally she gathered her wits—enough to register that it seemed oddly coincidental that Philippe had been waiting at the door to the corridor. That is, unless he’d been guarding it.

  Before she could question him, the cursed door opened once more, and the man she’d been eavesdropping on walked past, paying neither of them any attention. He crossed the lobby and exited, not into the theater, but out to the streets.

  Philippe followed his departure with narrowed eyes.

  Bea watched Philippe’s reaction to the man she knew as a spy—and saw recognition in those depths of blue. Her chest felt tight. “What are you doing here, anyhow?”

  He gave her a bemused look as his charm slipped back into place. “Why, looking for my lost lady, of course.” He proffered an arm.

  Bea placed her hand on it and allowed him to lead her back to the Wilbournes’ theater box, the unanswered questions roiling between them like clouds building before a storm.

  Once they were seated, he did not take her hand again during the last acts of the play. Bea felt the withdrawal of his affection like the ache of an open wound. Yet she could not help but wonder: what else, besides affection, might he be keeping from her?

  The carriage ride home was equally awkward—more so because the formal distance they maintained stood in stark contrast to the intimacy they’d shared during the earlier ride before the show.

  By the time Philippe bid her a reserved good night at her door, Bea was more confused than ever. She had precious few hours to sort out her thoughts, though, for tomorrow held their appointed return to Montgrave.

  Elizabeth and Charity arrived at Bea’s house the next morning, long before Bea was ready to face the day. In fact, she’d only just begun composing a letter to the Foreign Secretary, relating her observations from last night’s theater performance, when a flurry of colorful skirts appeared in the doorway and the sisters popped in.

  “Morning, Bea!”

  “Oh! You’re early.” Bea hastily shoved the letter into the drawer of the writing desk and went to greet them.

  “Charity’s fault,” Elizabeth claimed. “She complained of being left out—so she not only invited herself along, she then proceeded to usher me out the door well before a civil hour.”

  “Charity not wanting to be left out?” Bea asked drolly. “Heavens, that’s difficult to imagine.”

  “Oh, lay off, you two,” Charity responded, clearly not taking their teasing too seriously. “Of course, I wanted to go. Meeting Monsieur Durand at the salon was entertaining, but the opportunity to actually see the famous artiste at work—that is ever so much more appealing than spending another dull day strolling about Hyde Park.”

  Bea cocked her head and asked Elizabeth, “Has she renewed her tendre for Monsieur Durand, then?”

  “Not at all,” Charity answered. “I simply thought it sounded like fun.”

  “Of course, you are welcome along,” Bea told her, meaning it. The more people besides herself and Philippe, the better. She couldn’t trust him. Or maybe it was that she couldn’t trust herself around him.

  Unfortunately, she could hardly explain to her chipper friends the events of last night that had her so out of sorts. Alex Bainbridge had been angry enough that Bea had dragged Charity into the spy mess. She didn’t dare aggravate him further by involving his pregnant wife as well—no matter how close a friend she was.

  Instead, she did her best to mirror her friends’ enthusiasm for the upcoming outing.

  “Will Monsieur Durand begin on canvas straightaway, when this last sketch is complete?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Very soon, I should think, since he hopes to capture the spring season just before its peak.” Unless he was too busy moonlighting as a spy. Before she could dwell on that dark thought, Bea shoved it from her mind. Elizabeth’s question had reminded her of another dilemma. “E.,” she said, “I am ever grateful for your company, but when Monsieur Durand does begin on canvas, I expect we will need quite some days at Montgrave for him to work, and I feel terrible for infringing on your generosity for so long.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “You needn’t worry a bit. I am a true friend, for I am two steps ahead of you. The moment Monsieur Durand selected Montgrave, I anticipated you might wish to make an extended stay and avoid the frequent travel. So I wrote to my cousin, inviting her for a stay as well.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Yes, on my mother’s side. Her father was a country squire, and Lily herself was married for several years, poor woman, but lost her husband at sea.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “She’s agreeable enough, and takes on any number of odd positions to get by, and I thought—”

  “Wait,” Charity interrupted. “E., did you say Lily? As in Lily Moffett? Our cousin Lily Moffett?”

  Charity’s incredulous tone earned her a warning look from her sister—and aroused Bea’s curiosity.

  “It’s just,” Elizabeth explained hastily, “Lily hasn’t always had an easy time of it. I’m afraid she wasn’t at her best the last time Charity saw her. But that was some time ago. He
r health has quite recovered.”

  “I see,” Bea said. She looked at Charity, whose lips were clamped shut. Since she’d never known the girl to refrain from voicing her objections, Bea assumed there was nothing further to say, and let the matter drop.

  “I hope I haven’t presumed too much,” Elizabeth said, clasping her hands anxiously. “I do think the two of you would get on rather well.”

  “No need to worry,” Bea told her. “I would be happy to have Mrs. Moffett as a companion.” Widows often took paid positions as companions to their wealthier counterparts, and Bea counted herself lucky to be in the situation of needing a companion rather than hiring on as one. If she could help a relative of her best friend, even better. Bea knew Elizabeth held a special admiration for women forced to work for a living—she’d done so herself for several months before her marriage to the Duke of Beaufort.

  Bea laughed. “Actually, I suggested this very solution—bringing along a companion—to my mother. She expressed concern that if Monsieur Durand and I spent too long at Montgrave, it would give the appearance of impropriety. However, at the time I offered up the idea, I had yet to identify the companion I promised to have.”

  “See? This will work perfectly,” Elizabeth said brightly.

  “Wait.” Bea cocked her head. “You said you were two steps ahead of me. What is the other one?”

  “Well, I assumed you would agree this was the perfect solution—as you just did—and Mrs. Moffett has already arrived.”

  “Here?”

  “No, silly, she is at Montgrave. You shall meet her today. In fact, if you and Monsieur Durand become caught up in your project, there is no need to come back to London at all.” Elizabeth frowned. “Bea, dear, I am about to be terribly rude, but…are you planning to wear that to Montgrave?”

  Bea glanced down at her traveling costume. Normally she’d have worn a morning gown, but given their planned departure early in the day, such attire would only have necessitated the need for a change, so she’d donned the traveling clothes when she’d risen. “Is there something wrong with it?”

  “It’s only—didn’t you wear that the last time we went to Montgrave?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I don’t think I did,” Bea replied, confused. Her maid would never have laid out the same attire for two outings in such close succession.

  “Maybe one of similar color, then, or cut,” Elizabeth suggested. “At any rate, we can’t have Monsieur Durand thinking your wardrobe so dull.” She giggled. “He finds you alluring, mystical even—and so you must look the part.” She bounced up, surprisingly energetic for a woman whose mornings had been given to illness the past few weeks. “Come, I’ll help you pick something out.”

  Bea followed her friend in bewilderment. Her traveling costume was perfectly serviceable. But maybe that was the problem. Bea narrowed her eyes. If this sudden scrutiny from Elizabeth had anything to do with her matchmaking ideas, Bea suspected her attire was about to be replaced by a frock whose appeal had little to do with serviceability.

  “Charity, are you coming?” Elizabeth called as they headed toward the stairs.

  “In a moment,” Charity called back. “I’m just going to—to finish this divine scone.”

  The moment they were gone, though, Charity dropped the scone as though it were last week’s fish. She hurried to Bea’s writing desk. What was it Bea had so hastily shoved into a drawer when she and Elizabeth had come in? She hadn’t missed the telltale flush on Bea’s face, and she’d been wondering about it ever since. A love letter? Something to do with the spies? She had to find out.

  Charity briefly—and to no avail—tried to summon the appropriate guilt for snooping. If people would just tell her things, she reasoned, there would be no need to snoop.

  Quietly, she slid open the drawer. A sheet of paper lay atop the remaining contents, but Charity needed to look no further. It was addressed to Viscount Castlereagh. Aha! Bea had been doing some snooping—or was it spying?—again herself.

  That sneak! Charity had known there’d been more to that meeting with the Foreign Secretary. It must have been Bea’s skill in uncovering the hidden meaning in that message that had earned her Castlereagh’s respect—and, apparently, another assignment. Charity had sketched the men they’d observed that night, to be sure, but almost anyone could do that. Ugh. If only she had the talent Bea had, she, too, might have been included.

  Charity scanned the letter.

  While at the theater, I recognized a man in the audience as one of the same Miss Medford and I observed at Vauxhall.

  She could barely breathe as she read—this wasn’t just snooping, it contained mention of her!

  He is a servant, as I later overheard, for I followed him to a most interesting conversation with the actress, Miss Kettridge—

  Here the letter cut off. It must have been the point where she and Elizabeth had arrived, Charity realized. Drat. If only she knew—oh. Oh! A servant. The Wilbournes’ servant. She knew she’d recognized the shorter of the two men at Vauxhall—she just hadn’t been able to place him until now. But she was almost sure of it. Almost.

  Quickly, Charity closed the drawer containing the half-finished letter, then hurried upstairs to join her sister and Bea, hoping her absence hadn’t seemed unusually long. Now, she just needed to think up an excuse as to why she’d suddenly changed her mind about accompanying them to Montgrave.

  Philippe arrived promptly at the designated hour, showing no hesitation about resuming their project. And though Bea sensed a latent tension in the artist’s long, lean frame, there was no further mention of the awkward moment at the theater. Even when Elizabeth innocently asked how he’d enjoyed the show, his enthusiastic description of the actors and plot soon had Bea wondering if she’d simply blown out of proportion the whole incident during intermission.

  At Elizabeth’s urging, Philippe and Bea arranged to have their trunks packed and sent after them. Charity, displaying a typical bout of flightiness, had suddenly recalled a picnic she’d promised to attend and begged off the trip to Montgrave. The remaining trio was soon on the way to the estate, where Mrs. Lily Moffett, the companion thoughtfully provided by Elizabeth, waited.

  When they arrived, Philippe excused himself. “If you ladies do not mind, I wish to stretch my legs after the journey. I understand you may wish to refresh yourselves and greet this cousin of Lady Bainbridge’s. Would my absence be inexcusably rude? I shall not dally.”

  “Please, do as you wish,” Elizabeth told him. “I genuinely meant you should use these grounds freely—do not feel you must attend to us. We shan’t be long either.” She led Beatrice inside, where the butler informed them Mrs. Moffett was reading in the library.

  “I first kissed Alex in a library,” Elizabeth whispered to Bea as they approached the room. “I’m rather fond of them now.”

  Bea stifled a giggle as they opened the door. A woman seated on one of the chaises leapt up. “Elizabeth! That is, Your Grace!” She dropped her book and hurried over.

  Lily Moffett shared her cousin Elizabeth’s brilliant red hair, but the resemblance ended there. Her skin was freckled, her figure plump, and her clothes that of a country widow. But her eyes were merry and her smile wide.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Pullington.” She curtsied. “I hope I can offer some companionship during your stay.”

  Bea smiled. “Elizabeth is my closest friend. If she has invited you here for my benefit, I am sure we shall get on splendidly.”

  “I do hope so.” Lily gave Bea a brief rundown of her previous employment—a smattering of odd jobs—and ended proudly with, “I can produce references if you wish, my lady.” She clasped her hands as though anxious to please.

  “No, no need,” Bea replied. “This is not an interview; I simply wanted to meet you before starting on the day’s work. I trust Elizabeth’s judgment.”

  Elizabeth flushed. “Right. So, ah, what else can I tell you to help you two ladies get to know one another? I do so hope yo
u will be comfortable together once I return to London.”

  Someone tapped on the door. Philippe poked his head in. “Lady Pullington? If you are refreshed, shall we begin?”

  Elizabeth looked relieved—more so, Bea thought, than was merited by the minor awkwardness of introducing Bea to Lily. But there was likely nothing to it. In Elizabeth’s delicate condition, all her emotions seemed stronger than usual.

  “Why don’t the two of you get started, while Lily and I see to the arrangements for your stay?” Elizabeth suggested.

  “Yes, thank you.” Bea smiled, but something in Elizabeth’s tone—or maybe the smirk she couldn’t quite hide—tipped Bea off. The moment Philippe’s head disappeared from the doorway, she turned to her friend and hissed, “You aren’t still playing at matchmaker, are you?”

  “Me?” Elizabeth placed a hand to her heart. “What opportunity would I have? I return to London on the morrow,” she said, neatly avoiding the question.

  Bea quirked a disbelieving brow, then went to follow Philippe. “Mrs. Moffett,” she requested as she left, “when you and Elizabeth are finished, please do join us—Elizabeth can direct you to the rose garden.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” her new companion replied.

  Elizabeth followed Bea to the door. “You are pleased with my cousin as a companion, then?”

  “Yes, I think she will suit.” Lily Moffett seemed cheery and agreeable, and after all, the relationship was only to last a week or two.

  “Wonderful.” Elizabeth grinned and made a shooing motion. “Best not keep Monsieur Durand waiting—I understand artistes can be quite temperamental.”

  “Hmm.” Bea exited, walking toward the hall entryway where Philippe stood waiting. Why did it seem, these days, that everyone from the highest government officials to her girlhood friends had secret agendas? Except perhaps Mrs. Moffett, who appeared genuinely grateful for the position of companion.

  Lucky for Bea, she was not in the room to hear Elizabeth’s final words to her cousin. When the two women were once again seated, Elizabeth met Lily’s eye.